He’s not a live one anyway,” said the wife in an alien, cold voice.
“Why don’t you come yourself and talk with the doctor if you don’t believe me. They have nurses there—everything will be provided for him. After all, they didn’t invent this palliative care for nothing; everyone does it…”
Ilya was born two months premature, and he was immediately taken to the intensive care unit. At first nothing was said, then a glimmer of hope appeared—he began breathing on his own, and he started gaining weight. When he was finally discharged, he was still so tiny that Vasily was afraid to hold him, lest he inadvertently hurt him even more. But when little Ilyusha would wake up and quietly cry during the night, Inga wouldn’t go to him, and Vasily had to gradually get used to that. Moreover, Inga refused to take him to the doctors, claiming that it was all because of the doctors, insisting that she had submitted all the tests and even done the ultrasound, and they said everything was fine. But is that really fine? Three months old, and he still can’t hold his head up.
Vasily himself began scheduling appointments with various doctors, listening to incomprehensible medical jargon that left him tongue-tied, and having tests done with his son—each time closing his eyes childishly while the nurse struggled to find a vein. Eventually, he managed to see the genetic specialists at the regional center, who explained that Ilya could be helped, but that he needed special medications. That’s why Vasily went to work on a rotational (contract) basis—a friend had been inviting him for a long time, and they paid well there—but Inga wouldn’t let him go. And now there was no way out. So he left. He thought that his son was safe with Inga, and that everything was alright, but it turned out otherwise. And his grandmother never said a word, though he had the sense that she was hiding something from him.
“Everything’s fine, son, just keep working,” she repeated.
As it turned out, all this time it was the grandmother who had been going to the hospital with Ilyusha—talking to him, applying anti-decubitus cream, and giving him massages. Meanwhile, Inga had resumed work, without telling him. She only admitted the truth when Vasily informed her that he would be coming on a month’s vacation.
“Inga, he’s our son!” Vasily fumed. “What palliative care? Why do I even work then? The doctor said the medications—”
“What medications!” shrieked Inga. “Have you even seen him? You haven’t been here for half a year, so don’t tell me how I should be doing things! I’m still young, and I want to live for myself. Besides, you can always have another child. I don’t want, as a mother, to spend my whole life changing diapers!”
Inga’s younger brother had cerebral palsy, and when they first met, Vasily was mesmerized by how delicate and refined Inga was as she carried her brother, seated him in a chair, and read him stories aloud. That is essentially what made him fall in love with her. But it seemed that Inga’s love was enough only for her brother.
“If you don’t bring our son home, I’m filing for divorce,” Vasily threatened.
“Then file away! Is that your only weapon? I managed just fine without you all this time, and I’ll continue to do so.”
He never truly expected her to leave. Yet Inga left—even before he arrived, she was gone. She handed the apartment keys to his grandmother, who had long suspected everything but had not told Vasily—for during those six months, Inga had found somewhere else to live.
“Don’t worry, son, we’ll manage. I’ll help you with Ilyusha, but you’ll have to find work here—I can’t handle him alone.”
Vasily understood all too well—the grandmother had been ill for a long time and needed care herself, yet he couldn’t repay her debt; he just couldn’t split himself in two.
Vasily had been raised by his grandmother. His mother—a quite successful singer—had once brought him to her grandmother’s care for a month but never retrieved him. She sent money faithfully while he was in school, and then, it seems, she decided that she’d had enough and could manage on her own. In his youth, he always believed that his mother loved him; it was just that her life was complicated—concerts, filming, fans… He even went to one of her concerts—buying an enormous bouquet of roses, dreaming of presenting them to her, of her recognizing him and rejoicing, even exclaiming from the stage, “That’s my son!”
But things turned out very differently: first she ignored him for a long time, then finally she accepted the bouquet without even looking at it and carelessly tossed it into a corner. And Vasily had spent nearly his entire salary on that bouquet. After the concert, he struggled to get backstage, tried to explain that he was her son, but his mother wouldn’t let him in. She instructed someone to pass on that she was tired and would call back. He waited for her call for a month, never leaving the phone. But the call never came.
In time, he stopped thinking about her, and if her song came on the radio, he would immediately change the station, not wanting to listen even though he once knew every word by heart. His grandmother had become both the father he never had and the mother he needed. And now Inga had taken on the role of mother for Ilyusha—caring for him as best she could—while Vasily secured a job with a normal schedule so that the grandmother wouldn’t become overly exhausted. Inga didn’t even call, unlike his mother—at least she would sometimes pretend that she had a child.
“Vasya, I had the strangest, most vivid dream last night,” the grandmother once recounted. “Your dear grandfather (rest in peace) asked me to fetch water for him from the well. I said, ‘How can I carry it when my legs won’t work?’ And he said, ‘Everyone’s legs work here.’ I looked down and saw the grass so green—vibrant and soft, like fluff. I stepped on it, and my legs slid along effortlessly without even hurting! I fetched the water and then, just before leaving, I peeked into the well. And there, I saw you, dressed in a suit and tie, with a very pretty girl beside you, her cheeks dotted with dimples, and she was wearing a veil. I felt in my bones that with such a dream, you’ll find yourself a good wife—not that wild-haired one!”
“Grandma, what kind of wife! If his real mother wasn’t willing to care for Ilyusha, who will?”
Then, the next day, the grandmother didn’t wake up. So it seemed that the ‘dream in hand’ wasn’t for him after all—now she fetches water for grandfather, not little Ilyusha.
Vasily was at a loss about what to do next. His mother helped with the funerals, even coming in person, yet expenses still piled up, and it was mortifying to have to ask her. But a few weeks later, the mother herself called and said:
“I’ve found a nurse for your son. I’ll pay for her, don’t you worry.”
Vasily was astounded by his mother’s generosity, and he almost wanted to refuse, to say he didn’t need anything from her, but then he reconsidered—pride had no place now when his son’s medication was running out.
For some reason, he had expected an experienced, mature woman—he had seen many in hospitals while taking Ilyusha, and almost all of them in his grandmother’s youth were similar—businesslike, straightforward, knowing exactly what to do. But apparently, his mother decided to cut costs even here—she sent a recent graduate, a young woman who immediately confessed that it was her first job.
“Don’t worry, I took special courses and I can handle everything,” she said briskly, though her voice trembled.
He could have called his mother to say that this nurse wouldn’t be able to manage Ilyusha, but he didn’t feel like talking to her at all. So Vasily decided to wait—perhaps those courses would indeed prove useful.
The girl’s name was Marina. And she called him every half hour.
“Vasily Petrovich, is it normal that he hiccups?”
“Hold him upright. And put something warm against his back—you can warm a towel with an iron.”
“Vasily Petrovich, he’s breathing so laboriously, I’m scared!”
“Marina, an inhaler—I told you…”
And so it went on.
After a couple of weeks, she got the hang of things and seemed to manage better. However, Vasily had to switch jobs—her workday lasted until six, and he had to get home on time. So he ended up taking a job on a construction site, where the hours were flexible, but everything was off the books. They promised a good wage, but then…
Now, Vasily spent his weekends with his son—this girl couldn’t work on weekends even for extra pay, because she was studying Chinese, you see. She babbled on about wanting to intern somewhere, to study acupuncture. Marina was amusing, naive; she wasn’t nearly as meticulous as his grandmother—his grandmother always trusted the TV, whereas this one trusted the internet.
On Ilyusha’s birthday, however, Marina did come on her day off—she brought him a balloon (which he absolutely adored) and a hand-knitted overall. Vasily was so touched that he invited her over for tea—he’d even bought a cake for the occasion. Then, all together they went for a walk—dressing Ilyusha in a new overall, placing him in a stroller, and tying a balloon to it so he could watch it sway. Vasily knew that by his son’s next birthday, he might not even live to see that day, and just thinking of it made it hard to breathe. Yet in that moment, as he wheeled him down a sunny street, and the balloon strived to soar upward, succumbing to the gentle autumn breeze, his heart felt light.
It was only later that he noticed Inga—only when they stopped at a pedestrian crossing did his eyes fall on her overdone makeup. Nearby, some of her similarly dressed friends appeared, apparently on their way to an event. Inga didn’t immediately notice him, and her face flushed and broke out in spots. She turned away, murmured something to her friends, and hurried to the opposite side of the street.
“Who’s that?” asked Marina, noticing the tension in his gaze.
Vasily slowly exhaled and answered, “Nobody.”
“Well, that’s good,” she said with a smile.
He had never seen her smile before. The dimples on Marina’s cheeks suddenly appeared, and it reminded him of something—though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what. The blue balloon against the equally blue sky stood out as vividly as his own pounding heart.
Still, his salary never came through. The medication was running low, and Vasily saw no other way out—so he had to call his mother.
“Do I not help you enough?” she snapped irritably. “Do you know how much I pay this girl? What kind of man are you, unable to earn enough for the medication?”
Shame seized Vasily; his breathing caught for a moment. Could it truly be that he couldn’t provide for his own son? He hung up the phone and lowered his head—how he longed for his grandmother to come over, put a hand on his shoulder, and tell him that everything would be alright…
Soon, light footsteps were heard, and Marina appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding an envelope in her hands.
“Here,” she said, placing it on the table.
“What is this?” Vasily asked, puzzled.
“It’s for the medication. For Ilyusha.”
He couldn’t fathom what it all meant.
“Your mother paid me. She paid well, don’t worry. I was saving up for a trip to China, but now I don’t need it—I live with my parents, I have everything.”
“But what about your trip…” Vasily stuttered.
Marina merely shrugged.
“Where would I go now…”
She smiled shyly again, and once more the dimples appeared on her cheeks. Suddenly, Vasily remembered his grandmother and her dream. He blushed deeply—so much so that even his hair seemed to redden, though he couldn’t understand why.
“Take it,” she insisted. “It’s the right thing to do.”
“I’ll return everything,” Vasily rasped, clearing his throat as he asked, “And since you’re not going to China, maybe you could come over to our place on the weekend? We could take a walk like last time…”
Marina smiled once again and replied,
“With pleasure…”
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